01 - Honour of the Grave (26 page)

“Did Davio take others with him? Will he still have a force?”

Halfhead asked for more water; she let him take the skin and gurgle down as
much as he wanted. He raised himself up on his elbows. He looked at his leg and
made a face, like another man would at a cup of sour milk. “Davio’s finished as
a mercenary chief, at least for the time being. It would take him, what, five
years to rebuild what he had. Maybe more, when word of this trouncing gets
about. Dogs of war, they ain’t anxious to sign on with a man if they think he’ll
get them killed. But if Davio still breathes, you can be sure he’s working some
way of extracting revenge from Jurgen and his boys.”

Angelika knelt in close. “Listen very carefully. Now that none of this
matters, tell me if Davio had a boy with him. Scrawny, skin like porcelain, hair
long and scraggly?”

“The prince was not that way.”

“Not that kind of boy. A hostage. A von Kopf hostage.”

Halfhead wrinkled his nose. “Not that I know of, and I would have known. Not
anywhere in the Castello, that’s for certain.”

Franziskus squatted beside him. “And was there a Bretonnian woman in his
employ?”

Halfhead chewed thoughtfully at his lips. “There was a Bretonnian he had a
dally with, not long back. She was vocally enthusiastic, one might say. Or so
said the boys on palace duty.”

“Petrine Guillame?”

“That might have been her name. Flaxen haired, you could say?”

“That’s her.”

“Yes, I seen that one. Last time was a little less than a week ago, I think.
I saw her pass through the gate, heading away.”

Franziskus caught Angelika’s gaze. “That could be just after she sent us on
our wild goose chase.”

“Was she with anyone?” Angelika asked Halfhead.

“I wasn’t paying any great attention,” said the gateman, lying back down.
“Though she was pretty to look at.”

“Did she have a boy with her, like the one I just described?”

Halfhead closed his eyes. “Could have, I suppose, but it wouldn’t have been
him I was looking at.”

“How about a couple of demented halflings and an elf with a bandage on his
face?”

“You mean Goatfield and his cronies? Swinish ne’er-do-wells! I never saw them
with that Bretonny woman, though. Nor with a boy. Nor recently.”

“The woman, then. When she left, did you happen to see which direction she
headed?”

“Why, the only sane direction anyone would go.”

“Which would be…?”

“With a greenskin horde on the march? The only safe way: towards the Empire.
North. She went north.”

“We’ll get you cared for, Halfhead.”

“Call me Werther. I hate that name, Halfhead.”

“Very well, Werther.”

She and Franziskus ducked down so Halfhead could wrap an arm around each of
their shoulders. They stood to support his weight. They hobbled him out of the
prince’s ruined garden and—pausing periodically to huff and puff—through the
maze of shattered buildings to their empty cottage. They sat him on the floor,
propped against a wall. Angelika contemplated him for a moment. At no point in
the journey had he made a complaint or allowed a cry of pain to escape his lips.
She contrasted this with her own extravagant suffering in the pit, and felt a
little ashamed.

“We’ll get you taken care of,” she said. “You’re hungry, I’ll wager.”

“Good luck finding anything edible in this smoking trash pile. The
Averlanders cleaned this place bare. They did everything but lick the streets.”

Without further comment, Angelika departed. Franziskus cleared his throat
nervously and sat on the floor beside the injured man.

“Where do you hail from, Werther?”

“Up north. In Ostland, east of Wolfenburg.” Though the place Halfhead named
was part of the Empire, it was distant; Franziskus was not sure he’d ever met
another Ostlander.

“Do you ever consider going back there?”

Halfhead shrugged. “What for? It was so long ago I can’t even say my memories
of the place are accurate. What few people I’d care to revisit are no doubt
already in their graves. Give me some more water, please.”

Franziskus handed him the waterskin. He slurped lustily.

“Why did you leave in the first place?” Franziskus asked.

“Because I hated everyone there and wanted to kill them,” he said,
flatly.
“But I didn’t want to hang for it, so I thought I’d find places where a man
would get himself rewarded for all the killing he wanted to do.” With stubby
fingers he screwed the skin’s cap back on. “Though once I got a true taste of it,
I found it wasn’t all I’d made it out to be.” He regarded his leg. “Though
eviscerating the ones who did this, that might feel right.”

“You’ve travelled all about, then?”

“More than most.”

“Have you ever been to the Moot?”

“Hah?”

“Where the halflings dwell.”

“Why would anyone want to go there? Hey, boy, tell me—you and the woman. You
ever—?” He made the universal sign of sexual congress.

Franziskus shook his head. “You’d have to ask your prince, Davio, about
that.”

“Ah, the lucky son of a whore. Tileans, they get all the—”

The sound of creaking boot leather stopped him short. Angelika entered the
one-room cottage, her arms piled high. Franziskus tried to look innocent. He
could feel the burn of a blush on his cheeks. She gave him a questioning look.
He leapt up to help unburden her arms.

She’d found a pair of sausages, a bag of apples, some potatoes, a fistful of
radishes, a wedge of Middenheimer cheese, and a clay jug full of watery rum.
Halfhead’s eyes widened as she and Franziskus laid it out on the floor in front
of him.

“Sigmar’s wounds!” Halfhead swore. “I see a miracle before me!”

“This is what I do,” Angelika said. She divided up her spoils, and, without
speaking, the three of them ate. They were still hungry after the food was all
gone. She took a white shirt she’d found and tore it into strips. She poured the
rest of the rum on Halfhead’s stump and bandaged it. Though it seemed to bother
him less than it should have, the wound was a terrible one, and privately she
doubted whether he’d make it alone. Neither could they take him with them, and
she couldn’t remain in the Castello to forage his food.

She stood. “We must be on our way, Werther.”

He waved her off. “Don’t let me keep you. You’ve already done more than
others would.”

As they left, Franziskus cast a guilty glance back at him; Angelika kept her
eyes ahead. They saw that there was a stretch of still-extant town wall directly
to the east, and, beside it, a breach that had been cleared of debris and would
be easy to walk through. They meandered toward it, circumventing heaps of
wreckage.

“Where are we headed?” he asked her.

“You heard him—north.”

“Back to the Empire?”

“If need be.”

“But I have sworn never to return there.”

“Then stay with Halfhead.”

They cleared the breach. Something caught Franziskus’ eye and he turned to
look at the wall. Pasted on its outer side was a handbill. It had their names on
it, and crude drawings of their faces. It named them as Angelika Fleischer and
Franziskus Stirlandzner—Franziskus of Stirland. It offered a hundred crowns
for their capture, not specifying how much the reader would get if he only
caught one of them. Neither did it say what they’d done to have a reward hung on
them. The poster did, however, tell the reader that the amount would be payable
by Jurgen von Kopf, and that the prisoners should be taken to the barracks in
Grenzstadt.

“This is not good,” observed Franziskus.

Suddenly some men rushed out from behind an upturned cart, spearheads
out-thrust.

* * *

She stood shackled before Benno and Gelfrat. Franziskus was beside her, also
chained. The ruins of the Castello were visible; they were slightly further
north, and sheltered by a scattering of youngish trees. The Kopfs had about
three-dozen men with them, and horses and carts, to boot.

Gelfrat raised his hand to strike her face.

“I knew you’d come here, sooner or later,” Benno said, a smile making its
subtle way across his mouth. “I even risked the wrath of our father, by staying
behind.”

“Your astounding bravery has me weak-kneed,” she said. She saw Gelfrat
suppress a chortle at his half-brother’s expense. The big man lowered his
threatening hand, turned, and walked a few paces away.

“I won’t ask you again,” said Benno. “Tell us where you’ve stashed him.”

“I spoke the truth the first time,” she said.

Benno moved in, standing nose-to-nose with her. “You mean for me to believe
that you sold him to two halflings and an elf, but you had second thoughts, and
you now search for them, because you know not where they are?”

“I don’t control what you believe, Benno. I’ve told you the truth, because I
see no reason not to. You can take or leave it, as you see fit.”

He lunged to the side, directing a vicious underhand blow to Franziskus’
stomach. The Stirlander grunted in surprise and agony, doubling over.

“Striking my companion will change nothing, Benno. We don’t have him; Davio’s
people do. You’ve razed his town, but he has a last laugh still in store.”

Benno hovered the heel of his boot over the toes of Franziskus’ right foot,
silently threatening to grind it into him. Franziskus bit his lip.

“Where did they say they were headed?”

“Oddly enough, they chose to withhold that intelligence from me. But if you
return to your father’s mansion, I’m sure he’ll receive a ransom message soon
enough.”

He seized her by the back of her neck, pulling her face toward his. “That is
precisely what must not happen, you deceitful harlot. I—we—must be the ones
to deliver him.”

She smiled sweetly and blew into his eye, forcing him to blink. Taken aback,
he let go of her. “Then I suggest you scour the hills for the mercenaries I
named, or for Davio himself,” she said. “And a Bretonnian woman, called Petrine.
Franziskus can describe her to you.”

He broke away from her, kicking at the dirt. He took Gelfrat aside for a
conference, away from the ears of his men. She sidestepped to Franziskus; the
slight movement prompting the Black Sabre guards to lower spear-points at them.

“Without wishing to complain,” he softly groaned, “this is perhaps not the
best time to antagonise them.”

“I’m sorry, Franziskus.”

The half-brothers had finished their conference. Gelfrat wore an expression
of mild disgust. Benno ground a fist into his palm. He gave orders for the
soldiers to break camp. A thin young soldier with a beakish nose and a stunned,
wide-eyed look approached the two prisoners and knelt to unshackle Angelika’s
legs. With his comrades standing guard, spears ready, she briefly entertained
the thought of kicking him in the face and making a run for it.

He bent to turn the key in Franziskus’ shackles. Still cuffed at the wrists,
Franziskus bent down to rub his ankles. One of the guards reversed his spear to
poke the Stirlander in the ribs with its butt. Franziskus straightened. The
beak-nosed fellow ordered the prisoners over to a pair of waiting horses, then
commanded them to mount. These were sleek and healthy steeds, tall and muscular.
Franziskus calmed his horse as he slung himself awkwardly into the stirrups. Two
soldiers boosted him, compensating for his inability to use his hands by pushing
on his backside. The mount turned its long head back to Franziskus and let loose
a welcoming equine noise.

The guardsmen turned to Angelika and grinned. She stepped peevishly to her
horse. It glowered at her and flared its nostrils threateningly. The soldiers
seized her; she struggled to get her a foothold in the stirrup. Groping her
roughly, the men hoisted her up onto the horse’s back, with such enthusiasm that
she was almost pitched over the opposite side. The horse made its displeasure
known with a stamp of its front foot. The guardsmen also mounted and hemmed in
the prisoners’ mounts with their own. They waited until their comrades were ready, and Benno gave the order to move out. In tight ranks,
the Sabres rode north.

The soldier with the beakish nose kept to his position on Franziskus’ left.
“Ho there,” Franziskus said to him.

The fellow, no older than he was, sniffed the air.

“What’s your name, friend?” Franziskus asked.

“We’ve been warned about you,” said the young Sabre. “Deserter,” he added.

“How long a ride do we expect?” Franziskus persisted.

Beaky looked away.

“Is it to Grenzstadt we’re going? That would be, I’d say, a day and a half
ride, with one night’s camp. Yes?”

One of the older soldiers laughed gutturally; it was the closest to an answer
they’d give him.

The day was warm and hazy. The men rode with practiced boredom, rarely
speaking. Franziskus glanced at Angelika, but read her inky mood and could tell
she was in no frame of mind for conversation, either. The terrain around the
pass, with its wide and muddied lowland and the jagged, tree-strewn rock walls,
remained relentlessly predictable and uninteresting. Even the animals joined in a
conspiracy to increase the journey’s tedium: Franziskus spotted no deer, no
rabbits, not even any wild dogs; occasionally he saw small teams of swallows
flit overhead, but the caws and chirps he’d come to associate with the Blackfire
had all fallen silent. He brought this fact to Angelika’s attention.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” she said, scanning the hills to left and right. The men
around them overheard, and joined her in nervous scouting.

Angelika looked up. Diffuse wisps of dark smoke snaked overhead, a slow wind
carrying them from the south. She craned her head backwards, as if hoping to see
the fire that went with the smoke. The guards couldn’t help but do the same.

“What is it?” Franziskus asked.

“Burning trees,” she said.

He sneezed. And not wanting to beg his captors for a handkerchief, he let
clear mucus spill down from his nose and onto the sparse moustache that had
grown on his lip over the last week.